


tread like gossamer serpents towards a new beginning

by JessKo



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dabo Boy Nog, Dress Up, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Poetry, Porn With Plot, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 14:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30107430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessKo/pseuds/JessKo
Summary: Nog never was accepted to Starfleet Academy, and the whole ordeal left him so crushed that his ambition died along with the application. So, as the years pass he continues to work Quark's bar, now managed by his father as a franchisee. When the bar is left severely understaffed due to Rom taking a vacation with Leeta, Nog is goaded into playing dabo boy, dainty outfits and all. It just so happens that this is the week that his long time friend Jake Sisko returns to the station for a surprise visit and shows Nog that there may be something more waiting for him in the galaxy. There's adventure, joy, and rain falling on your head, and Nog has been missing out on it all.
Relationships: Nog/Jake Sisko
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	tread like gossamer serpents towards a new beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those stories where I treat the concept a little more seriously than it has any right being treated as it is literally just an excuse to get Nog into some cute outfits, but I hope you all enjoy this as much as I did writing it out. 
> 
> CW for some unconsented to touching (patrons grabbing Nog's ears and similar occurrences)

“You put _Broik_ in charge?” Nog protested loudly as he glanced at the day’s work roster. 

Rom shrugged from behind the bar as he set up the register from the day, getting ready to depart. “He has seniority.” 

“I’m your son!” 

“So you should respect his decision.” Broik commented as he swaggered into the bar. Nog noticed he’d already taken the liberty of shedding the usual green waiter’s uniform for an orange jacket with tails that nearly dragged along the floor, probably his finest and befitting a fill-in manager. 

Nog had half a mind to spill his Trixian bubble juice on his white shirt, but something else grabbed his attention. “Wait a second...Why am I at the Dabo tables?” 

“That was not my decision to make.” Was all Rom could offer his son before Leeta appeared in the doorway, a comically large bag slung on her back as she called for Rom to hurry up. “I better go, good luck!” 

Turning his ire back to Broik, Nog held his padd up to the taller Ferengi’s face. “Explain!” 

“Someone has to fill in for Leeta, and as the waiter with the least experience, you got the job. Besides, some women think children are cute, so maybe they’ll tip more to you.” Broik teased, gesturing to the storeroom, where among other things the dabo worker costumes were housed. “Better get dressed, we can’t have you being confused for waitstaff.” 

There was more Nog wanted to say, mostly about how he was far beyond the age of ascension and hardly a child, but staff was beginning to arrive, and he knew that arguing with the manager, even if he was only temporary, was pointless. Grumbling to himself he went off into the closet where the costumes were kept. 

“Hey! We’re changing here!” A woman called out as another tossed a purple shawl over Nog’s head to block his view as soon as he opened the door. 

Holding up his hands submissively, Nog apologized, “Sorry! But I’m supposed to be in here getting… something to wear.” 

After conversing among themselves for a moment, one of the women confirmed Nog’s story. “The kids on the roster with us, oddly enough.” 

One of the women removed the fabric from Nog’s head, a brunette human named M’Pella. “So, how can we dress this one up?” She mused aloud. 

An alien with striking red lines over her forehead, Sarda, flipped through some gowns hanging in the cramped space, stepping over benches and makeup kits. “He’s too short for most of this, but maybe this one?” She eventually decided, offering a yellow piece with a high collar and more cut outs than hu-mon cheese. 

The third occupant, Aluura, nodded her approval. “We can sew him into it if we have to.” 

Nog was ready to panic, “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ll just, uh, try it on.” He resigned, swiping the garment from Sarda and hiding behind a hat rack as he shucked off his attire as quickly as possible. 

The dress was soft at least, a velvet material, but that was the only redeeming factor. The breasts and hips were too large, pockets of air sagging off his frame, yet the stomach was too tight, the back wouldn’t even zip around his midsection. The worst part though was just that it looked terrible on him. 

“That’s not going to work.” M’Pella announced flatly, and the others agreed. “It gives me an idea though, come here. But first take that off, if you rip it you’re buying Sarda a new one.” 

Complying, Nog strode over to the woman with as much dignity as he could in nothing but his underwear, cursing himself for not adopting the much more conservative hu-mon variant of the garment when rooming with Jake, back when the man had still been on the station. There had been a few nearly nude run-ins with each other in the bathroom, but somehow even that had not convinced Nog to make the change. It was too late now, so he just held his head up high and submitted to the women’s attention. 

Part of him figured he should have been way more thrilled at being in a closet with three dabo girls, but his thoughts were far away from the situation. 

Picking the purple shawl up from before, M’Pella began draping it around Nog, pinning it together over his chest and groin and not much else. He tried not to squirm as she poked his skin a few times with the sharp implements. Leaning in, Aluura added a few glittering pins along the fabric that crossed his front. It was when Sarda clipped a long golden earring on from behind that Nog had finally had enough. “Alright! I think that’s enough, ladies.” 

“I agree, with nails like that you’re not borrowing any of our shoes.” Sarda commented sharply. Nog didn’t take the insult personally, long toenails were a Ferengi tradition and he should be proud to show them off. 

Yet, when he strode out of the storeroom barefoot and hardly dressed, his confidence quickly deflated as he felt dozens of pairs of eyes on him. The women slid around him to their stations, ready to start the day on time. 

A warm hand clapped itself on Nog’s bare shoulder, snapping Nog out of his hesitation. “Please tell me you have plans to arrange for alternative clothing tomorrow. I should just let you have the day off, but the tables are already beginning to crowd and I’ll need the fourth one spinning.” Broik whispered, shoving Nog towards the furthest dabo wheel where an elderly Bolian woman was already waiting for him. 

Many cheek pinches (both sets), wheel spins, shouts of dabo! and miniscule tips later, Nog was ready to collapse. The work had been entertaining, but incredibly taxing and he was dreaming of crawling into the shower. But first, he had to return the borrowed articles of clothing. He entered the costume closet to as roaring of an applause three women could give. Sarda even slipped a cool cup of slug juice into his hands, which Nog graciously accepted and guzzled down in five long sips. 

“You survived the first shift, well done.” M’Pella praised him, patting the top of his head, and Nog felt a blush rise to the tips of his ears. 

“It might be a good idea to figure out your wardrobe for the next one now, while you have the time.” Aluura suggested as she shrugged a coat over her civilian clothes. 

Nog replied as he began to delicately remove all the pins from the shawl, “I’m going to figure it out, but I have a better idea than all this. Not sure any of these dresses were designed with a male in mind.” 

“Fair enough, good luck kid.” Sarda commented, somehow managing to not brush up against his lobe as she retrieved her earring, and then was ready to go. In a minute, Nog was left alone trying to untangle himself from the purple monstrosity he was stuck in. Tripping over his own feet, he landed on the floor and wrestled the outfit from a new angle, careful to not tear the fine fabric. 

Earlier in the day he’d concocted an idea for how to make his own costumes, and he really hoped it worked out the way he thought it would. Once he was finally back in his normal, warm and modest clothes he left the empty bar behind him and returned to his quarters, a split double with one occupant. He’d left Jake’s half of the apartment exactly the same as the day he’d left, and rarely ventured into those rooms. It brought back memories, which was always a delight, but after he walked away Nog was left with a hollow in his heart that he didn't have the energy to address. Jake was on Earth now, and he was still on Deep Space Nine, and that was all there was to it. 

Now, Nog dropped to his knees and fished a crate out from under his bed. Upon reaching the age of ascension, he’d sold most of his childhood belongings, but kept a few secretly for reasons he still didn’t quite understand. It probably had something to do with his innate instinct to acquire, he worked hard for this stuff after all. Or maybe it was another attack of sentimentality, something he had a weakness for these days. Either way, he was glad he hung onto the items. Opening the crate, he extracted a few articles of childhood clothing: rainbow colored pajamas, green pants with suspenders, a peach sweater, and a few other random pieces. 

The clothes themselves thankfully still fit for the most part, Nog hadn’t grown much vertically since his second set of lobes came in, but they weren’t exactly revealing either, just snug. At least, they weren't revealing yet. After replicating needles, thread, and other supplies Nog got to work hacking away at fabric and hemming seams as best as he could, incredibly thankful for the ‘home economics’ section of school with Mrs. O’Brien. As a child, he’d been incredibly disappointed that the topic had nothing to do with finances, but now he could appreciate the secret profit in such skills. 

Working until the early hours of morning, Nog managed to have one outfit assembled and assessed himself in the mirror. He’s cropped the colorful pajamas down into a midriff revealing top with an open back criss-crossed with shining straps and shorts that left little to the imagination. He also replicated some tall boots that reached up to just below his knee, with a bit of a heel in the back so that if the Bolian woman returned, his lobes would be out of reach unless she stood up from her stool. 

Eyes bleary from the work, he considered it a job well done and undressed, bathed, and plopped belly-first onto his bed, passing out in a matter of minutes to make the most of the few hours before his next shift began. It barely felt like a blink before his padd was chiming out his work alarm. He changed into his creation from the night before and felt a strange pride, but he was left with the issue of getting from the habitat ring to the promenade. Rom had borrowed his only overcoat for Leeta to use on Ferenginar, so there was nothing useful outside of his sheets to cover up with, and that might look even more suspicious than the revealing outfit. 

Being so tired he hardly cared, Nog laced up the boots and left his quarters in the eye catching ensemble after a quick bite to eat and wash. Arriving at the bar, Broik gave him an approving nod and pointed him towards the same table as the day before. Seems he’d have to earn a better position, but this was a good start. 

The tips flowed in a bit better than yesterday, and the customers were more than just grannies which was a nice change of pace. Nog wore his most flashy smile and spun the wheel with a flourish, leaning over it to show off the meticulous detailing on the back of his garment. Someone appreciated the view and stuck a slip of latinum between the straps. 

Nog’s short lunch break overlapped with Sarda’s, who gave him a eyeliner stick in a color she no longer felt complimented her complexion after her last molt, and helped Nog apply it around his eyes, exaggerating his thin lashes and brown eyes. On his dinner break Aluura stuck some colorful rhinestones along the top of his head, outlining his brainlobe, and M’Pella applied a thick gloss to his lips once he was done eating. The cash really began flowing in, not anything to get rich by but more than he usually received bussing tables. He really could get used to this! 

That is, until uninvited touches really started coming in. Hands joined the slip of latinum along his backside, and security nearly needed to be called on a woman who just could not keep her claws off his lobes. After the shift, Sarda taught him how to politely but intentionally move appendages away from body parts, but also added that the more he allowed patrons to explore, the higher they would tip. 

“I don’t mind a touch here or there, but oo-mox is incredibly distracting and I think she was trying to cheat.” Nog replied with a huff. 

“In that case, call Broik over and he’ll deal with it.” She offered. “Worst case, security gets called. Best case the person wanders away.” 

“It’s still frustrating.” 

“I know. Your father should be back in a few days, and then you can go back to waiting tables.” 

Nog considered this, inspecting the most recent deposit in his account. “Yeah, but the money is way better at the dabo tables.” 

“That’s why we put up with it.” Sarda winked, standing up from the barstool as the cleaning staff was thinning out, it would be time to lock up soon. “You’re lucky though, a few years ago Sisko made Quark cancel the ‘fringe benefits’ clause in our contracts, so there’s a lot less to put up with now. See you in the morning, Nog.” Planting a soft kiss on the top of his head, she left the Ferengi to his thoughts. .

“Fringe benefits? What does that even mean?” Nog asked aloud, and the look he got from one of the older waiters, raised eyebrows and a light tug of the lobe, answered his question for him. 

“Dabo girls have such soft hands… I wonder if the boys do too?” He mused, and Nog hissed in his direction, leaving the bar behind him. There was no time to deal with all of that, he had sewing to do! Or at least, he thought he did. Upon returning to his quarters, he found that the green suspenders would work in their current condition. Nog had put on some weight since the last time he’d worn them, so his legs filled out the soft fabric, and the straps fit around his waist snugly. They paired fine with the boots he was already wearing, so he used the evening to snack on some flaked blood flea and browse his padd. 

There were some photos from his father with Leeta at his Granmoogie’s house, they seemed to be having a good time, and then there was an announcement from Earth about Jake’s latest publication. Eagerly, Nog opened the attachment to find that Jake had released a short collection of poems. As he browed through them, Nog felt a pang of sadness, and jealousy. He was glad that Jake was following his passion, something Nog thought he might be cut out for before being rejected from Starfleet Academy, and also wondered why Jake had to be so far away to write about sunshine and longing. The poems were saccharine, romantic, and almost too much to handle. 

All Nog could figure was that Jake had a new girlfriend and must be in a good mood. With a sigh, Nog poured the rest of the blood flea flakes down the hatch and switched off his padd. That was enough of that for one night. He tried to go to bed, but found himself tangled up in his companion’s words. There was one line in particular that had caught Nog’s attention and just would not let go. 

> _Drops fall onto the untouched ground, leaving trails in their wake as they roll over raw soil to tread like gossamer serpents towards a new beginning._

Whatever had inspired the words didn’t matter, they were inspiring Nog now, firing up his imagination. It brought him back home, to the earliest days of his youth exploring the bogs outside of his childhood home, some cheap real estate on the edge of the city. The delightful smell of moss and humidity filled his lungs as he inhaled deeply, watching the only dry spot in the entire swamp get saturated by heavy rains, sudden and blocking out the sun. 

Then, he fell down onto that patch of dirt, dragging Jake down with him to explore virgin land, and new skin. They tumbled down towards a pond, laughter filling Nog’s ears and his entire world being this other being pressed against him.

His hand slipped between his legs, fingers knowing how to delve between his folds and touch all the right places to coax out his glot, the knobby appendage as moist and smooth as a mangrove vine as it slid out into the cool night air. 

Laying one arm over his face to cover his eyes, Nog stroked along the underside of his cock, circling the base and dragging his fingers along the length to spread his natural wetness along each fold and ridge of the glot. 

He moaned softly as he hit a most sensitive little whorl at the top, hummed as Jake’s lips breezed across his own, delicate and thin. Ghost fingers left invisible tracks along his skin, traveling across his shoulders and down his chest, wiping away the filth of the day. 

All too soon, Nog’s muscles seized and his glot released its seed, a sticky ball of semen that stuck to his thigh. Coming down from the high, Nog gently nuzzled against his pillow, dragging his outer ear along the soft fabric. Trance broken, he was aware that he was alone, but fantasizing was nothing new for him. It’s not like he’d had a partner in bed before, it was all he knew. 

Once his breathing evened out, Nog blinked the aroused fuzziness out of his eyes and reached over for his padd, pulling up the poem one more time. 

> _Walking just beyond the ever present signs of growth, of love and loss and whatever is lodged between, nothing separates life from existence._
> 
> _Color and sound, sense and time, these are one in the same. A coming storm heralds the intersection of all, shaping the future and erasing the past._
> 
> _Drops fall onto the untouched ground, leaving trails in their wake as they roll over raw soil to tread like gossamer serpents towards a new beginning._

He dreamt of a time where he might have been the serpent instead of the dirt.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a poet so I apologize if my attempt at lyricism is horrendous!


End file.
